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She mocked him. ‘Don’t you ever muck about?’
‘Not on my client’s time.’
‘Of course not. I was wrong—you should be good cop. Goody-good.’
‘You really think I’m a boring square, don’t you?’
‘You’re a lawyer. You couldn’t be more straight.’
‘Someone should hire you to do PR for my profession. Most of the population think we’re crooked as.’
At that she smiled. ‘You realise it’s after six. Haven’t you clocked off yet?’
‘I work long hours.’
‘Clearly.’
What did she mean by that? That he had no life? Hell, he spent half his evenings at some social event or other. And didn’t have too much trouble finding dates to take with him. Pretty dates. Dates who wore designer, not…second-hand. He turned on his stool to face her, finding her enjoyably close. She made to step away but he stopped her by taking her wrist in his hand. She stilled completely. He liked the feel of her—as soft as he’d imagined. In his own time, in his own way, he’d show her exactly how un-boring he was. Soon. ‘Have you never been in a job you love, Lucy?’
‘Not for long.’
‘And why is that?’
She shrugged, pulling her hand away. ‘The love doesn’t last long.’
He let her go—her words hitting a nerve. She’d given him a timely reminder. She was the epitome of everything he didn’t like about women—unreliable. His desire, and the rest of him, cooled. ‘Everything set for tomorrow?’
She nodded. ‘It’ll be just fine.’
‘Good.’ He pulled his papers towards him and started loading them back into his bag. ‘I’m in meetings all day so I won’t be here when you open up.’
‘You’re not going to be here?’
Disappointment touched her features and he schooled himself so satisfaction didn’t touch his. ‘I’ll swing by later in the evening and see it’s all OK.’
‘But—’
‘You can call me on my mobile if you need me.’ He stared at her. She stared back. ‘But you’re not going to need me. Are you?’
Lucy swallowed. Yes, she needed him. But that had nothing to do with the bar. She liked him sitting there keeping her company. He hadn’t noticed when Sinead had left—over an hour ago. She should have been sorting out the office some more but she’d found things to do out in the bar just so she could keep half an eye on him. The wrinkle in his brow when he was intently reading was undeniably cute. She liked the cut and thrust, the volley of alternates. His observance of her. His questioning. His look that suggested he felt as uncomfortable around her as she did around him.
No way was he her type. No way was she his.
But there was chemistry there. And they were circling around it like two wary wolves.
‘I’ll be fine.’ She would too. The bar would open, drinks would be on hand, music would play and, hopefully, customers would arrive. But she had the fantasy of it being an all-out hit. Of bodies cramming the dance floor, steaming it up. Of her standing behind the bar, presiding over a couple of hundred happy clubbers out for a good time. And she wanted him to witness that—to see that she wasn’t a flake. Wasn’t ‘just’ a waitress who flitted from job to job. She’d run the place—not just keep it afloat but make it come alive. Prove her worth, not just to him, but to herself. Ordinarily she estimated her worth as pretty low. She was better at making mistakes than making much else out of life. But maybe she could really swing something here.
She’d spent half the morning out doing the rounds of the fashion establishments, hair salons and chic cafés. Dropping a word in here and there, leaving some flyers she’d knocked out. She knew everything, everything came down to word of mouth. Lucy could do mouth. Get the beautiful women here, the right women, and the men would follow. So she’d made the calls, bluffed her way round without being too desperate-real-estate-agent sounding, and now all she could do was ensure the stage was furnished for the party people to play on.
True to his word he wasn’t there when she opened up. And he still wasn’t there when they were halfway through the shift. She told herself she didn’t care because everything else was perfect. She couldn’t quite believe it. Was she really making a success of something? Her? Lackadaisied Lucy? Sinead stood at the door downstairs in her black with her earpiece and microphone clipped on, her long blonde hair a river down her back—looking like every man’s action-heroine fantasy come to life—attracting huge amounts of attention.
Corey was working the bar with her and so was Isabel. Both were in black as requested and their hair was perfect. Her own hair was as wayward as ever—crazy half-curls that were impossible to control. So she hadn’t bothered. She’d just twisted it up out of the way. She too wore black—an A-line skirt to her knee, boots, mascara. But her top was scarlet—with black ribbon trim. No cleavage, not too tight, but definitely flattering. She and the others worked their respective parts of the bar relentlessly.
Lucy glanced over to the dance floor, amused by a gaggle of younger women dancing. Giggling together, they were having a fun time and try as they might the two guys standing at the edge of the bar couldn’t maintain their conversation for more than ten seconds without their concentration being splintered by the sight.
Daniel might be concerned about fire and emergency regulations but there were other more insidious elements that could threaten the safety of the clientele. Lucy knew only too well the kind of dangers that could be snuck in by unscrupulous men.
She’d instructed Sinead to carefully ID-check any younger women, knowing how well some make-up and a dollop of confidence could add a few years onto a girl to take her from under age to entitled entry. She’d done it herself—one time too many—and she’d paid a price. One she didn’t want anyone else to have to endure. So Sinead was downstairs, being tough.
But you didn’t have to be under age to be at risk. So upstairs Lucy had told Corey to keep the window sills and ledges cleared, encouraging customers to keep their drinks with them—in their hands—at all times. She’d made sure the bathrooms were well lit. She’d locked the cleaning cupboard that was across the small hall from the lavatory doors. If she were going to be in charge for a longer stint she’d request a CCTV camera be installed in the vestibule. They might not be able to monitor it at all times, but they’d have recordings. And if anything did ever happen, they’d then have evidence.
That had been her problem—lack of evidence. She’d just been marked the troublesome teen that no one would believe. Worst of all, she didn’t know what to believe herself. Her memory had been damaged by the chemical cocktail she hadn’t known she’d had.
She shook off the unhappy reflections and breathed in the party atmosphere. Bad stuff wasn’t going to happen here. She surveyed the scene once more. It was the success she’d dreamed of—almost. He hadn’t been there to see it.
She checked her watch for the eightieth time that night and hid the frustration. She’d wanted him to see her success. She grumped—what did she care anyway? He was just a jerk in a suit who wouldn’t know a good time if he fell over it. She, on the other hand, knew how to have fun in a club—by dancing. She shimmied along behind the bar, amusing herself by playing up to the punters. Smiling, chatting, never crossing the line, but encapsulating the sizzle vibe. They grooved to the music as they poured the drinks and kept the crowd coming back for refills. She laughed with Isabel over Corey’s second broken glass of the night and went and stood over him, doing her Mistress Lucy dominating boss act that he fully played up to—knowing by now her bark was a whole lot worse than her bite.
When she turned back to the queue at her end of the bar Daniel was at the front—still in a suit, stubble darkening his jaw. Hot eyes burning into her, their golden lights gleaming. Her heart sped and her smile was huge. ‘What’ll you have? On the house.’ She winked. Feeling friendly. Feeling like fun and frisk—and willing to take a risk.
‘Just a quick beer. I’m not staying.’
She got a bottle of one of the best, fighting the disappointment. ‘You should—it’s going off.’
He looked around. ‘Yep, you don’t need my help.’
His sour demeanour annoyed her. ‘Don’t you like to have a good time, Daniel?’
‘I prefer more intimate for my good times.’
‘Do you? I prefer a party atmosphere.’
‘Clearly.’
‘Yeah. I like the thrill of being close in a big crowd but knowing you can’t be as close as you really want.’ She did too—the delight of suspense, the torture of wanting and having to wait. It made an evening fun.
‘So you’re a tease.’ He sipped and added smartly, ‘Figures.’
She experienced an almost uncontrollable urge to slap him. Completely foreign—even the most annoying customer had never irked her as much as he did. Did the guy not know anything about having fun? Fortunately for him a punter was impatiently waiting for a drink and she flounced away to serve him. Rushed to serve more, she didn’t get to glance back. When she finally did, he was gone.
As she worked from one end of the bar to the other, sorting problems, getting Corey to clear tables, ensuring everyone got their ten minutes’ break time, she fought harder and harder not to think about him. And failed completely. Why had he cleared off so quickly? Surely she’d seen the spark of desire in his face—in the pool this morning, in the café, in the bar tonight when he’d first caught her eye. She hadn’t dreamt it. But then he’d been Mr Grumpa-rama. He preferred ‘more intimate’? What did that mean?
Near-naked pictures from the pool raced through her mind again and she slammed the brakes on pronto. Did he feel the zing between them? Did he secretly love their sarcastic sparring too? God, he was hard to read. He just matched her for smart answer time and time again but really gave very little away. She wished she hadn’t seen him in little more than a towel. Who would have thought that such a body could lie under that straight white shirt and tie? He wore a suit well—very well.
He wore nothing better.
She shook her head and concentrated on serving up the last few drinks, instructing the DJ to switch to mellow tunes that would send out the home-to-bed vibe. After the last of the customers cleared, she and the others did a quick tidy. The rest would be done by the cleaner in the morning. Lucy turned the music down and printed out data from the computer.
Sinead paused on her way out. ‘You sure you’re OK being left alone in here?’
‘So long as you lock the door on your way out I’m fine.’ Lucy winked. ‘And I know a few moves, remember?’
She listened to Sinead clomp down the stairs and heard the satisfying click of the door below. Then she slumped in a chair in relief. She’d done it and done it well. And it had been such fun—until Daniel had come and gone again. Her happy mood slipped.
Mad with herself for being so down over him, she went to her bag and rummaged through her CD file. Finding the one she was after, she loaded it into the machine and turned it up loud. The early hours of the morning were still hot and she opened a couple of the windows wider, lit an oil burner and put it on one of the centre tables to help get rid of the smell of booze and the perfumes of a hundred bodies. Then she danced—with the freedom she always had when the music was up loud and she was alone.
Daniel gently shook his half-full glass as he sat on his deck in the warm breeze and looked at the city lights reflected on the water. He wasn’t sleepy. Not even a little bit. The club would be closed now. She’d have gone home for the night. He realised he didn’t even know where her home was. Her CV only had her mobile phone number as her contact. He toyed with the idea of texting her—to make sure the place was locked up tight.
His phone buzzed—was it thought transference? He answered, body seizing as a female voice said hello. Then his brain clicked on.
‘Hi, Lara.’ Oh.
‘Is everything at the club OK?’
‘Yeah, it’s fine.’
‘You get someone good?’
‘Yeah.’ Try stunning. Try teasing. Try truly aggravating.
‘Many there?’
‘A few.’ Honestly he couldn’t really say. His eyes had been on her from the moment he’d walked in. She hadn’t noticed him. He’d had the ‘pleasure’ of watching her flirt with buff guy before he’d made his way to her end of the bar. She’d been right about the attitude and the look—although she hadn’t been head-to-foot black, her top a slash of scarlet. Trust Lucy to break her own uniform rule. He remembered Lara waiting on the end of the call. ‘Quite a few actually. Lots.’
‘Are you OK? You sound distanced.’
‘Must be the line.’ They made an impressive line-up of bar staff—buff guy, the petite brunette and the tall, tanned curvy one with the brilliant smile. She’d smiled her way through serving her customers and they’d all smiled back. Every one. Even the women. So how come he got it so infrequently? It was as if she’d taken one look at him, decided he was an arrogant jerk and been point-scoring ever since.
‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’ Lara didn’t sound remotely sorry.
‘That’s OK. I can handle it until you do.’ But could he handle his lust for Lucy? Little Miss Smart Mouth—openly antagonistic because she thought he was some stuffed shirt. But her eyes had gone smoky at moments when they’d been physically close—there were sparks there. He wanted to blow on them, and then stamp them out.
‘Thanks, Daniel. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’
‘No problem.’
He pressed the end button and set his glass down with a snap. If he was going to be awake at this time he might as well be working on his case notes. He glanced at the box on the floor by his feet. No chance. Instead he stood. A walk would help. Clear the mind and make him tired so he’d sleep. He’d walk through town, past the club, make sure it was all shut up and secure.
There were a few stragglers still on the road but it was largely quiet, peaceful and warm. Despite the couple of mouthfuls of whiskey he’d had he was stone-cold sober. As he neared the club he started to walk that little bit faster—he could hear music. Worse than that, he could hear country music. Well past closing. He got to the door—it was locked and the stairwell light was off. He walked into the middle of the road so he could see up to the windows and into them a little—they were wide open and there was a light on inside. What the hell was going on? Was she staging some sort of lock-in? The music was appalling. Had she turned the place into a line-dancing school? Either way it was being shut down now.
He shouldn’t have hired her. Never should have done it. He’d been bamboozled by a beautiful body and eyes that begged for him to believe in her.
Idiot.
He pulled the keys out of his pocket and inserted them in the lock. She was about to be sacked.
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_96ef7193-f148-52c9-b9c2-19285ba6f5e9)
It is essential for you to try things with your own hands
LUCY was whirling round the floor, arms outstretched, when she heard it. Heavy footsteps on the stairs. Inside. Coming up. Fast. She stopped still. Brain spinning. She dashed for the bar and got behind it. Then cursed herself for her stupidity. If he was after cash he’d come straight for the till. She thought about her mobile phone—in her bag in the back room. Useless. Fear slashed through her but she refused to freeze. She had to fight.
Her mind flickered, eyes hunting for a weapon. Glasses, bottles—weapons which would be used against her. Then she saw it—the postmix—the drink dispenser. She could squirt soda at the intruder and dash for the fire alarm with the seconds that bought her. She lifted the nozzle from its rung and stood square on to the door just as it opened and she saw the manly figure outlined—tall, broad, familiar. Body achingly familiar.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ they shouted simultaneously.
Lucy swore as he advanced and she saw it truly was him. Her heart didn’t know whether to speed up, slow or stop altogether.
‘You gave me one hell of a fright.’She couldn’t mute the remains of high-strung panic. Snatching quick, full breaths, she tried to calm. The relief washing through her was as effective at shutting off her brain functionality as the fear had been moments before.
What was he doing here? Especially looking like that? Angry, dishevelled and so, so hot. He still wore his suit but the jacket and tie were gone now. It was just his white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck, tails escaping his trousers, and even rougher stubble on his jaw.
‘Well, what are you doing? You should be home by now and this place should be shut up.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to get your precious licence revoked.’
‘So what about the licence? It’s dangerous for you to be here alone at this time. You should leave when the others do and go home in a cab.’
‘I was sorting the paperwork.’
‘Do it tomorrow. With music like that Noise Control will be here any moment.’
‘It’s not that loud.’
‘No, but it is truly awful.’
‘Don’t you like country?’
‘Hell, no.’ His glare softened. ‘Just what were you planning on doing with that?’ He nodded towards her hands.
She remembered she still held the postmix. Devilish temptation called. Not water—not enough power. Cola would stain and the taste brought back horrible memories. It would have to be lemonade. Her fingers flexed. Her hands raised to aim.
He saw the movement. His eyes narrowed. His mouth opened.
Before sound emerged, she pressed the button. Frothy lemonade squirted out, hitting him square on the chest. His shirt was soaked in seconds. He stood still, not giving any clue to his reaction. The liquid raced, leaving a translucent path down his chest, fitting the material to him like second skin.
She stared. ‘Maybe you should revisit the strip-club idea.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Or at least instigate a wet-tee-shirt night. Or wet business shirt.’ She couldn’t stop the huge smile spreading across her features, the burgeoning glow of amusement, the flame of desire, the illicit thrill that she got from his unreadable expression. How was Mr Cool Collected Type A going to handle this?
She lifted the nozzle again.
He spoke. ‘You. Dare.’
Goose-bumps peppered her skin, but her smile still grew. She got him in the hair and face this time.
And then he moved. Faster than she’d thought possible for such a big guy. He took three paces and vaulted over the bar to where she stood. In a split second he had the postmix out of her hand and held it firm in his and she was pinioned to his side by his spare arm.
She squirmed. He squeezed—pulling her even closer.
‘You know you’re trouble with a capital T.’ He waved the nozzle at her. ‘You’re about to get really wet.’
